The death of a Faerie king or queen was a horror even to one of Glomar’s stoic nature. He took on his man’s form when he beheld the tombs—so many of them for one kingdom!—and fell to his knees. Each one signified three deaths for those entombed.
Glomar’s hard face melted into that of a young boy struggling to hold back tears. He had seen the work of Death before upon occasion. In the war with Arpiar, he had put an end to the immortal lives of many goblins and had seen comrades fall, their spirits carried (he was told) across the Final Water. But never a Faerie king or queen. Iubdan and Bebo had ruled Rudiobus since the Mountain was no more than a small Faerie hill. Etalpalli must be a land of fearful history to have lost four of its kings and queens to Death’s appetite.
On trembling legs, he advanced, drawn to this horrific street as though against his will. And he saw that the names of the monarchs were carved in Faerie tongue over the doorways: Citlalu the Star King; Queen Mahuizoa the Glorious; Tlanextu of the Coming Dawn. All names of power. All names of those who succumbed to unnatural death three times.
The name on the last tomb had been obliterated, the stone melted until the letters were indecipherable. A recent destruction, by the smell of it, Glomar decided. Its doorway on ground level was open; the doors of the other tombs had been blocked up. Their walls rose sheer and unbroken to the sky.
Glomar thought, This is her tomb. They built it for her when she changed and lost her heart. For she died that day, and they mourned her. Poor Sky People.
“Glomar! Captain Glomar!”
The voice came from the darkness. It startled Glomar so badly that he fell back into badger form, teeth bared. But he knew that voice, and when his ponderous mind caught up with his beating heart, he recognized it.
“M’lady Gleamdrené?”
Out of the shadows within the tomb’s doorway, a face appeared. There she stood, lovely in her green dressing gown, her flaxen hair wild about her face. She smiled at him. At him, Glomar, the oaf to whom she’d never cast a glance save to irritate Eanrin! How beautiful she was, and how frail and sweet she looked here among the awful sepulchers of Etalpalli.
Glomar lurched forward, his baggy hide quivering with delight. “M’lady!”
She laughed and reached her hands to him. “You have come for me at last! I knew you would, faithful Glomar. Hurry now! I’m caught by a spell, but you can break it. Only you, Glomar! Only you, my dearest!”
He realized after the fact that he should have known better. It was so clearly a trap, he should have laughed. Gleamdren would never call anyone her dearest, after all. Not a soul could claim that honor from the maiden who simultaneously held all her suitors in highest regard and lowest contempt. But that voice and those tender words fulfilled the deepest wishes of his simple badger heart, and he lacked courage to face the truth of the matter while making the split-second decision to run to her arms.
To run into the gaping doorway of the tomb.
The shadows pulled him in, and he was blind. Glomar heard the rumble of the door closing behind him and knew he’d been had.
Curse all females and their pretty talk!
Eanrin took a stroll.
Being a cat, he disliked appearing out of his depth. So as he sauntered down Etalpalli’s malevolent streets, he did so with the air of a dandy on his way to call on some maiden aunt, anticipating an evening of dreadful boredom, yet keenly aware of his own charm. His tail was up with the faintest curl at the tip, his whiskers were smooth, his eyes half closed.
No one would have guessed how madly his heart raced.
He couldn’t tell which distressed him more, his outward circumstances or his inward fury. Possibly the fury, which would be much more manageable if he could figure out exactly what he was furious about.
“Glomar and his heartless accusations, clearly,” he told himself. “The boor, hurling such slanderous notions my way! I am a Faerie, a Rudioban, an immortal bard. And I do not like the mortal girl.”
But he did. Which was the worst part.
At least for the moment he could enjoy the gift of solitude. He needed it desperately if he was going to clear his head and reevaluate his situation. Here he was, deep in Etalpalli. Why was he even here? He remembered the rush of the River, the feel of Imraldera’s hair in his hand, the fall . . . He had leapt into the water to save her, but why had they even ventured near the River?
“Gleamdren,” he said. “Of course, Gleamdren! You are here for your own purpose. Forget the other wench. You are well rid of her, and you never wanted anything to do with her in the first place. It was all the—”
He stopped. The face of the Hound appeared before his mind’s eye. With a shudder, he shook it away.
What a shambles his life had become since he’d glimpsed the Hound! He’d rather have been run to the ground by the Black Dogs, torn to shreds in their ravenous jaws, and dragged to the Netherworld. In Death’s realm, though but a ghostly vapor, he would remain Eanrin.